


a helping hand (and an arm, and a foot, probably)

by orphan_account



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Gen, Mostly Fluff, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, maybe a little bit of angst, two bored lonely idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-20 16:45:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3657810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When did leaving Camp Jaha become being tucked into bed by John Murphy?</p><p>~</p><p>or the one where Murphy is just way too happy to have a roomie at the lighthouse and Clarke is, well, tolerating it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a helping hand (and an arm, and a foot, probably)

The drone returned to meet her at the shore, as Clarke stumbled through the shallow water, dragging what was left of the sea monster-ravaged boat behind her. She fell to her knees in the sand, (Oh, had she seen more than enough sand for a lifetime.), overwhelmed with exhaustion.

Taking in deep, shaken breaths, Clarke took in her surroundings. A lighthouse, of course, it was tough to miss, and another boat not far from where she had come ashore. She dipped her head down again, trying to find the will in her to stand up and keep chasing the stupid drone. The same stupid drone that refused to stop whirling impatiently in front of her.

When the flying contraption got a bit too close for comfort, her hand shot out reflexively, clutching one of its spinning blades in her hand. That was going to be a deep cut, but for now she relished in having complete control over the flying nuisance she had been following across the desert for much too long.

The drone buzzed and beeped and scanned in a robot-like panic, but Clarke had a tight hold on it as she examined it. If only Raven were there to crack this thing open like a Jobi nut and figure out where it was leading her, she thought.

She sighed, deciding to see where it would take her, and released the drone, opening her hands and tossing it away from her to avoid any more unnecessary injuries. She watched with a frown as the drone’s frantic noises slowly died out, and it’s blades stopped twitching for the desire to gain altitude once more.

“Damn it!” Clarke hissed, realizing that she had broken the bot. She wanted to be optimistic and hope that there were more, but she knew the truth. She was stuck on an island with two broken boats, a dead drone, and no clue where to go.

She was beginning to question her reasoning for abandoning the storage bunker just outside of Camp Jaha that had previously been graced with her residence.

Following the trail of discarded TV remotes with curiosity, she was lead to another obnoxiously shiny solar panel, glimmering under the bright morning sun. She tapped it gingerly with her foot, hoping a new drone would pop out of this one, to no avail.

However, she was met with a pleasant surprise when she lifted her head, a strange door just up the hill that resembled something like a much larger version of the studs on her disheveled jacket. In the lighthouse?  
After finally gaining some friction on the fallen leaves, she took the last few long strides up the slope. The massive doors greeted her with no lock, so she jammed her fingers between the two and pried one open, stepping quickly inside and closing it behind her, against her better judgement.

Quiet music graced her ears, and immediately she was delighted while still terribly afraid. She ignored the motion-detecting automatic lights, tiptoeing quickly down the stairs to see an incredibly messy establishment. Blankets were thrown about the sitting room, empty liquor glasses resting haphazardly on the edge of nearly every surface. MRE wrappers and other pieces of plastic packaging nearly carpeted the floor in the kitchen area.

“Hello?” She called, raising her fists, prepared to defend herself. She meant no harm, but she didn’t plan on hesitating to deal it out if attacked.

“Wha-“ Came an all-too-familiar voice, and there he was in all of his obnoxious glory. John Murphy stood in the doorway of what appeared to be a bedroom, straight brown hair sticking up and out in all directions. His eyes seemed glued half-closed and, _oh-_

He stood in nothing but briefs and socks.

Clarke refused to blush or look away, and he didn’t seem to care in the slightest anyways.

“’Sup, Clarke?” He said, voice raspy with sleep as he rubbed his eyes with his fists.

“Clothes, and then we’ll talk.” Clarke practically ordered, extremely uncomfortable with the entire situation. He blinked slowly, and then tilted his head back. “Ah, well, I mean this was a guy’s place, so if you’re cool with one of those shirts with the buttons or-“

“No, Murphy- I meant you.” She sighed again. Different Murphy, same level of intelligence.

He looked down and raised his brows, seeming a bit startled by his bareness at last. “Right.” He grunted, spinning out of sight into the room.

She heard shuffling, rustling and the slamming of drawers before he finally returned, sporting an oversized grey t-shirt and hideously bright red sweatpants.

“So, now that I’m decent, you want to tell me how the hell you ended up here?”

Clarke parted her lips to answer when he spoke up again, a master of interruption. “Dude, your hand.”

She looked down at her hand, losing a steady stream of crimson drop-by-drop to the bunker floor. She breathed in surprise, as suddenly the pain, previously masked by the energy it took to simply comprehend her current situation, occurred to her.

He approached quietly, tapping a hand on the small of her back to turn her as he led her to their destination- what she assumed was the bathroom.

When they entered the modest, small bathroom, (in comparison to the rest of the bunker,) Murphy kicked the lid to the toilet down and Clarke took a seat on it.

As he rummaged through the cabinets, Clarke leaned back with a sigh, completely overwhelmed. How long had it been since she slept? Since she had talked to another person?

“There you are.” He grunted, plunging his arm far into the cabinet and recoiling to hold a box of bandages and a tube of something and examine them. He scrunched up his face, seemingly struggling to read the words on the containers. He held them up to Clarke to confirm that he had the correct things, and she nodded in approval.

He kneeled down in front of her and took her wrist, waiting on Clarke to comply as she hesitated to open her fist. The last time Murphy played nurse he killed someone.

So he pried her hand open with an eye-roll, thumbing a glob of antibiotic ointment over the surprisingly shallow cut from the drone’s blade. He hummed as he worked, and Clarke was ready to die of shock. He’s gone from camp for what, a month? Two? And now he’s gone full out good guy?

_Maybe there are no good guys._

Tears sprung to attention at the waterline of her eyes, and Murphy twitched as he looked up to face her. “Oh- shit, Clarke, no- did that hurt? Crap, I’m sorry, I don’t-“ He rambled, pulling his hands away and scooting back, and Clarke sniffed, shaking her head. “No- it’s not you, sorry.” She nodded towards her hand again, signaling for him to continue. He moved forward hesitantly, using his teeth and one hand to rip the paper wrapper off of the bandage.

“I mean, like, if you need to, I don’t know if you want to talk about it I-“ He started again as his hands ghosted over her wounded one, trying to work as quickly and touch her as little as possible.

“Thanks but no thanks, Doc.” Clarke gave him a sad smile and he returned it, smoothing down the sticky part of the plaster over her palm.

He stood up and practically tossed the first aid supplies back into the cabinet, kicking it closed. He ran a hand through his hair, glancing in the mirror quickly and then pretending he hadn’t, and parted his lips to speak.

“So, needs, we’ll call them the three S’s, sleep, shower or s'food?"

Clarke humored him with a small laugh. “Shower. I don’t want to get dirt and blood all over your bunker.”

“Yeah, because it’s so clean and that’s my top priority, thank you for your consideration Clarke.” He grumbled with a straight-face, but there was a kind of sparkle in his eyes that Clarke had never seen in him before.

“I’ll get you some clothes.” He said, fast-walking out of the bathroom to another room. Clarke stood and went to look in the mirror, but regretted this instantly. She looked exactly how she felt. Like shit.

Dark circles surrounded her eyes, and it was no Tri Kru warpaint. Her brows and hair were salted with gritty flakes of sand, and her lips were peeling like a snake shedding it's skin. Cherry red colored her sunburnt skin, and random spatters of blood crawled up her neck and cheeks. She turned around quickly, leaning against the counter and waiting on Murphy to return.

He strutted back into the bathroom and handed her a too-large black t-shirt and some purple pajama pants, accompanied by a pair of white socks and plaid boxers. Murphy scratched the back of his neck and avoided her gaze. “He was a dude, so- no lady garments-“ Clarke bit back a laugh at his use of the word ‘garments’, “-but you can always wash your clothes, so this is- like, so- yeah.” He stuttered, rushing past her to turn on the shower. “How warm do you like it? Ice cold or ice cold? Lots of options.” He joked, grinning and she forced a smile back, before he pointed to the towels and the soaps and nearly sprinted out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

Murphy was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a terrible host.

-

When Clarke exited the bathroom, feeling ten times better, Murphy jumped to attention from the bar.

“Here, stuff.” He guided her towards the sitting room, where a plate of saltine crackers took residence next to a glass of water and another glass of liquor.

He shrugged. “Didn’t know which you’d want.” After a beat, he added, “If you want the water I’d be glad to take the whiskey off of your hands.”

Clarke scoffed, offering a smile, and then gave him a nod of her thanks as she collapsed on the couch with the plate. Before she could move to even pick up her drink, she was unconscious.

-  
She woke up in someone’s arms, and pretended to be asleep as not to embarrass that someone. What with all of his recent jitteriness he might drop her on her head.

He tried to place her in the bed gently, but kind of shoved her over the side of it instead, pulling the white comforter over her shoulders and leaving the room quickly.

When did leaving Camp Jaha become being tucked into bed by John Murphy?

Before she could further process what her life had become, thank God, she was out cold again.

**Author's Note:**

> I know it was short, but trust me, there's going to be a lot of parts to this series. (Whether I should say you're welcome or sorry is up to you.)
> 
> >:]

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Shattered Nightmares and Glued Daydreams](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4595979) by [Sysnix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sysnix/pseuds/Sysnix)




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